Harry Potter and the Isaiah Strain
by LGreymark
Summary: Voldemort's death released a virulent disease upon the magical world. Affecting only those under the age of twenty this malady has left Magical Europe reeling over the loss of an entire generation. Harry Potter is the last surviving member of that generation, and suffers under the effects for thirty years. This is Fleur's story of the last two decades of his life. Lemons later on.
1. Time

Harry Potter and the Isaiah Strain

-:-

AN1: This story is a non profit work of fiction based on the popular universe created by JK Rowling. She owns the sandbox, I just like to make castles in it. Enjoy!

Preface to the Text:

This story, in an unfinished state, has been percolating in my head for quite some time. It's a story of love and friendship yes, but only in a secondary sense, in the primary this story is about struggle, support and fellowship not just in a time of great trial, but during a lifetime of trial.

For those of you who have read my existing series; The Deception, including Harry Potter and the World of Deceit, Harry Potter and the Web of Lies and Harry Potter and the Falsehood Ploy, you'll know well about my invented magical subject of sorcery and will need not read the next paragraph, for those who have not, read on.

Sorcery in the simplest terms is a wordless, wanded method of casting magic based on the user's intent and imagination, rather than rigid spells. It's primary function is for duelling, but it can be turned to a variety of household and experimental techniques. If you want more detail I highly recommend the first story of the Deception Series which covers the topic in far more detail than I have time to recant here. Rest assured however that a deep understanding of sorcery is not required to enjoy the following text. Sorcery will be present however, and I felt at least a primer would be helpful to avoid my readers becoming completely lost.

There's little more that needs being said here, save a warning that I'll be aiming for a very emotion heavy story that covers topics and events hard to talk or think about. I understand fully if this turns people away, but I find myself being driven to write about such topics, and will do so. Be warned, this story is not for the faint of heart, like my other series, it is listed, and will be, a tragedy.

That said I initially tried to write this from Harry's perspective and quickly found the task impossible. So I took a nod from Muggledad's _Partners_ and decided to write this entirely from Fleur's perspective, I even added a eulogy at the start because honestly it's a neat story writing mechanic.

Right, enough of that, onwards, to new beginnings, and the beginning of a new end.

LGreymark

NB: French text in italics.

-:-

Prologue: Memorial

"We're here today, all of us, to pay our respects to Harry Potter. To most of us he was a very good friend. To a few of us, he was family. To me, he was my husband, and the father of my only living child."

Sunlight bore down heavily on the podium where an almost ethereally beautiful woman stood. Her hand resting on a stone tablet next to a shrouded body. Fleur Potter's beauty wasn't marred by her grief, despite it's furor.

"I first met Harry when he was fourteen years old. Then, I thought him only a boy, a child in over his head, searching for glory. Then he held his head high, powered through the tri-wizard tournament and showed himself, even then, to be a man. I saw little of him in the years between then and Voldemort's final defeat. My first husband and I retreated from the war, I admit I was afraid… And so was William.

I wasn't even there at the end, when Harry killed Voldemort, ended his reign. To this day I wonder if I would have lived if I had been, I was only three years older than Harry, and my magic was nowhere the strength of his. I saw him often in the next year or so, he was at all the events thrown by the ministry in his honour, but he wasn't happy, none of us were."

She took a shuddering breath and all present could see the emotion wrought in her features as she continued.

"When Ronald died we all understood that something horrible was happening. Voldemort's last laugh, the Isaiah strain... "

She paused again, her lips moving but no sound issued forth, if the assembled mourners didn't know better they'd swear she'd had a silencing charm put on her. After a moment she closed her eyes, swallowed, and continued.

"My husband… He suffered for thirty years with the disease we have come to know and hate… The disease that nearly tore down our way of life as we know it. After William died… I never thought I could love again, but Harry broke through my walls, though he never intended to."

She sobbed then, a harsh emotive sound that felt alien on the ears coming from such a beautiful elegant woman.

"I watched Harry lose himself, to this… this curse. I was with him through what he always called the happiest years of his life, but what were really the hardest, most painful, though he always disagreed. My husband was an independent, fierce and strong man. He fought tooth and nail, refusing to let his nemesis get the better of him for longer than anyone else ever managed against that foul monster."

A soft smile curled at her lips in remembrance as she spoke.

"Let me tell you about the man I love… Let met tell you about the years I shared with him. Let me tell you about Harry James Potter."

-:-

Chapter One: Time

August 29th, 2012, 13 years after the battle of Hogwarts.

Fleur _hated_ hospitals. St Mungo's was particularly bad because not only was it a hospital, it was a _magical_ hospital, which had even more horrible things floating around it's halls. Literally.

St Mungo's also had two particularly fiendish flaws, it was where her husband was being treated for Egyptian Tomb sickness, and it was where she had to bring her daughter to check for the Isaiah Strain. She'd been bringing Victoire here for eleven years, this year she'd be going to Hogwarts and she hoped and prayed that her daughter was healthy, because only healthy children were allowed in the school.

Currently she was walking down the stark corridors of the magical hospital with her Veela allure on low bore. Normally she wouldn't use her power in such a way but it was a convenient way to get the predominantly male staff out of her way as she forged a path through the busy medical center and Fleur Weasley was in a very, very bad mood.

She glanced back at her daughter with a worried expression for a moment but the determined look on Victoire's face reassured her. She turned back to watch where she was going and immediately collided with something very tall and very solid.

Shocked utterly she stumbled and fell backwards only to be caught around the waist by a very strong arm. Still a little shocked she started apologising immediately only to be cut off.

"Fleur, it's fine. Neither of us were paying attention apparently."

Of course it was him, of the maybe two dozen males in her social realm only two of them could resist her allure, and only one of them was utterly immune; he wouldn't have been pushed from her path. She also felt a frisson of fear run through her spine; Victoire.

"Harry, _salut_ , haven't seen you for… a while."

She met his eyes and saw the same haunted but determined and understanding gaze she'd seen for the first time almost two decades ago. His lips bore a sad smile.

"You know I'm not contagious don't you?"

His smiled broadened as he turned it to Victoire, it didn't reach his eyes.

"I'm no threat to your daughter."

And just like that the fear was gone. His quiet confidence was always so reassuring. She opened her mouth to reply, with what she had no idea, but was cut off again.

"Hello Uncle Harry."

She glanced back at her daughter only to see Victoire hiding behind her leg, blushing furiously. She couldn't blame her, Harry had only grown more attractive with age. She looked back to the man in front of her and shrugged apologetically before nodding in the direction of the office she'd been heading to.

"We're here to see Healer Michaels."

"Me too."

The breath caught in her throat, of course that's why he was here. How could she forget.

"How are you?"

The concern in her voice was thick enough that it affected her accent. Years of living among the English had muted her French speech pattern, but only on the surface. The sad smile was back on his lips and her heart broke for the young man who'd been fighting for so long. His war never ended.

"No change Fleur, go see the doctor, and Bill."

He put a conciliatory hand on her shoulder meeting her eyes with that haunted gaze.

"It was good to see you two again, say hi to Bill for me."

He walked around her and just like that he was gone. She turned to try and find him in the crowded corridor behind her but he'd vanished, as was his wont. Getting her sudden wash of emotions under control she looked down to her daughter and smiled softly at the look of shy wonder on Victoire's face. Her little girl had a crush. She reached down and smoothed back one of Victoire's locks back from her forehead and her daughter looked up at her, a curious expression on her face.

" _Maman_ , why don't we see more of Uncle Harry?"

How did you answer that question? How did you explain that the beloved uncle in the family, the youngest uncle, the one who got on so well with all the children, was slowly dying? How to explain that there was nothing anyone could do to help? She deflected, utterly unready to have that conversation with her smitten daughter.

"We're running late _ma fifille_ we can talk later, _bon_?"

" _Oui Maman"_

Privately Fleur was very glad William had never learned French, it had been something she could share with her daughter, something just between them. It was selfish but her husband adored Victoire and she had him wrapped around her little finger, it was so hard to compete with him for her affection sometimes.

Compete? Where did that come from?

Shaking her head at her own inner monologue she tugged her daughter's hand gently to get her moving then set off again, traversing the last dozen meters or so to the door separating the rest of the hospital from Healer Michael's office. She knocked once, was asked to enter, and did so. Every time she entered this office she was struck by how warm and welcoming it was. Thickly padded squashy leather chairs were arranged around a table at the far end of the room with a desk and two high backed but still comfortable looking chairs positioned opposite it. The healer's desk chair seemed strangely utilitarian in comparison, as if he was lowering himself and elevating his patients simultaneously; it was a weirdly comforting situation.

Greeting the man with a short wave of her hand she led Victoire to the desk and gave an apologetic grimace to the healer.

"I don't have much time before I need to be back at work, I was wondering if you could do your tests now while I checked in on my husband and then we could talk about the results when I returned?"

Victoire squeezed her hand warmly, letting her know she'd be okay and once again Fleur had to thank the heavens that she had such a self assured and confident daughter who knew how to function away from her mother's apron strings.

The healer smiled warmly and gestured for her to go.

"Absolutely Mrs Weasley, I wouldn't want to keep you from him, Victoire and I will be fine, won't we?"

The last part of his statement was directed at Fleur's daughter who nodded cheerfully. Bending quickly at the waist Fleur kissed Victoire on the crown of her head before turning to go. She'd been taking Victoire to see Healer Michaels since she was six months old, by now the man was like family, she felt a pang of sadness and pain at that thought, family. The Weasley clan had been gutted by the Isaiah strain; Ronald, Ginevra, both lost in the early years, Charlie Fred and George had all left the country for good to flee the effects and she and William had gone into hiding, secluding themselves for years from the general community except in extreme circumstances. Hoping to mitigate any chance of their daughter catching the horrendous magical disease.

William's room was in the Terrence Manus ward on the same floor as Healer Michael's office, therefore it wasn't much of a journey between the two. Unlike most magical buildings which had unrealistic or blatantly illogical architecture and floorplans St Mungo's had a refreshingly straightforward and organized design, probably because it was a medical facility and unnecessary complication of the hallway layout could lead to loss of life.

So it was that she was soon standing in front of the Terrence Manus ward and she felt emotion rise in her gorge at the title on the placard; 'Incurable Magical Diseases'. Swallowing her pain she pushed the door open and stepped inside the quarantine square. The painted square on the ground activated and moments later a thin layer of magic had formed over her skin; a protection layer against the maladies in the ward.

The healers on duty barely blinked as she walked down the rows of beds. Many of them held stage four Isaiah Strain patients who had forgotten their identities and were a danger to themselves and others. She averted her eyes, Harry was still stage one and had been since he was diagnosed, she couldn't imagine him like that, couldn't imagine her daughter like that, if she was ever infected. Instead her gaze locked on a bed near the end of the row. Once again emotion rose in her throat and she resisted the urge to sob.

Laying near motionless under the thin hospital issue sheet was her husband, his skin was already showing signs of mummification, his tanned tone had darkened to a dusky hue and the muscles had wasted from his frame, leaving him thin and gaunt. The only sign of life he displayed were his icy blue eyes staring around from lidless sockets, a spell periodically keeping them moist.

She slowed and nearly halted, he was much worse now than when she had last seen him, girding herself for the emotional encounter to come she regained her gait and bravely made her way to her husband's side.

He saw her long before she arrived, those eyes she loved so much were tracking her with his usual intent precision. His mouth opened but no sound came out and Fleur felt her heart wrench in her chest, it wasn't _fair_.

He'd contracted Egyptian Tomb Sickness on his latest curse breaking trip and had only just made it back to British soil when it developed symptoms and they had to rush him to St Mungo's to prevent his lungs from mummifying on the spot.

As magical diseases go it was one of the nastier ones, a sort of last defence of the ancient Pharaohs seeking to preserve their treasures. It mummified the body, rapidly transfiguring the living interloper into a dessicated husk. The curse had lost some of it's power over the intervening millennia and so presented symptoms much more slowly than it normally would, further action from the healers at St Mungo's had delayed the effects even more, allowing William a few weeks more to live.

It would never be enough. When she'd married William it had been in the middle of a war and neither of them had known how long they had together. Then news filtered in about the battle of Hogwarts and Harry's victory, they'd allowed themselves to believe that they would be safe, happy, allowed to live a full and rewarding life together.

Then less than a month ago William had come home barely able to breath and Fleur knew her world would never be the same, they'd agreed not to let Victoire see the mummification process, it could scar her for life. They'd use glamours on him to make him appear simply very sick when she came to visit.

She reached his bedside and all thought vanished from her mind. The healer attendant who was performing diagnostics murmured apologies before pulling back to give them some space, clearly nothing important if he could leave so simply. She reached out and took Bill's hand, uncaring about the mottled discolouration of his now bony appendage, and simply stood there, communing with her husband in the silent way many life partners can achieve.

Eventually she spoke in a low, emotional voice.

"Victoire's here, she's getting her checkup. I would have brought her to see you but… I have to get to work again soon."

He squeezed her hand ever so slightly and she stifled a sob, she'd thought she'd be prepared for this but clearly that was folly. He couldn't even speak, his beautiful, husky voice was gone. She reached out and tenderly traced the scars on the side of his face where Fenrir attacked so long ago and felt a tear slide down her cheek. She ached inside to help him but there was nothing she could do.

"I love you William."

That soft, fragile squeeze of her hand again nearly broke her but she held on, barely, she had to stay strong for Victoire. Her lovely daughter would know if she had been crying. She stayed for another minute simply meeting eyes with her husband before wrenching herself away. Every time she came in to see him she didn't know if it would be the last time.

Walking away from him was one of the hardest things she'd ever done, it felt like she was leaving a part of herself behind, like she was missing some vital facet of her being. As she closed the door to the ward behind her she let out an uncharacteristically harsh breath and closed her eyes, bracing herself and mustering the necessary strength to appear happy for Victoire.

The return journey to Healer Michael's office was blissfully short and quite soon she was sitting next to her daughter in front of the desk where the Healer was pouring over a set of magically generated notes. Her daughter seemed bored but overall happy, she didn't understand the magnitude of what those notes might hold.

A discreet cough from the Healer had her looking up at him and the look in his eyes made her heart plummet. He stood from the desk and gestured to the other side of the office. Heart racing she turned to her daughter and felt tears well up in her eyes, _not her too._

" _Restez ici ma chérie , je serai de retour dans un instant."_

Standing, unsteadily, she took a breath and followed the Healer to the other side of the room. She had to fight to keep her allure in check as she approached, emotion tended to make it flare and she needed this man alert. His eye were filled with sympathetic pain as he spoke.

"Your daughter tested positive for stage one Isaiah Strain Mrs Weasley. Her magic is stable for the moment but judging by the damage already done she's been infected for around three weeks, can you think of anyone she might have been in contact with around that time who might have infected her? If we could get them to a quarantined location we might be able to save others."

Damage control, it was already a case of damage control. She took another breath, shaky and painful before trying to speak. Her mouth moved for a few seconds without making sound, she swallowed and tried again, this time managing a husky rasp.

"We were in Diagon Alley getting her school supplies, it could have been anyone, I tried to keep her safe but… oh _mon dieu_."

She turned to the wall and fought with herself for a moment to remain strong. She could break down later in private, right now she had to be strong, for her daughter.

"Mrs Weasley, your daughter is very young, and despite her well developed core she is going to quickly progress to stage two. Depending on how the next couple of weeks progress she could be looking at anywhere between six to twelve months."

"Six months?"

The question came out in a choked whisper, she closed her eyes again, trying to shut out the pain. So soon?

"At the very worst Mrs Weasley, your daughter does have a very well developed core for her age, I'd personally estimate her time at eight to nine months, eleven if you're very lucky."

Eight months, that was slightly better, _slightly_ , her thought from earlier came back to her; It would never be enough. Parents were not meant to outlive their children, at least William wouldn't have to experience that pain.

"Are you familiar with the progression path of the Strain Mrs Weasley?"

She couldn't help it, the glare she sent the poor man would have most scurrying for the hills. She had to give him credit that the only sign of his discomfort was a noticeable thinning of his lips.

"Two members of my husband's family suffered through this disease nearly a decade ago, my sister is currently in asia having fled it's scourge of Europe. One of my oldest friends is going to suffer with this for the rest of his life, I'm well aware of how this disease progresses. Stage one, little to no observable effects. Minor damage to the magical core, Stage two, loss of early memories and noticeable drop in magical power. Victims are contagious at this stage of the sickness. Stage three is a near complete loss of short term memory and general disorientation, most victims cannot wield any magic by this point. Stage four is a loss of identity and during stage five the victim loses their life. I understand fully Healer Michaels and I'll thank you to remember that."

The rebuke was delivered in a threatening hiss of a tone that made the man take a step back.

"Apologies Mrs Weasley, it's a question I have to ask, it's routine."

She huffed, annoyed at herself slightly for losing control

"I know Healer, I apologize but you must understand, my husband has a terminal magical malady from Egypt and my daughter has just been diagnosed with the most deadly magical disease ever recorded. Forgive me for being irritable."

A long slow breath lets her regain some of her equilibrium, some.

"What do I do?"

The healer regained his composure and spoke with an apologetic tone

"Your daughter is going to reach stage two in around a month and a half, by this point she'll have to be quarantined, we prefer to bring patients here and have them isolated in a secure ward but we understand if you want to have your child kept at home. You're above the age of infection and as long as you don't allow any uninfected person under the age of twenty you should be able to keep her safe and away from people who can be infected…"

The pause was too telling, she'd spent years in and out of this hospital and she knew the man surprisingly well.

"What is it Healer Michaels? An idea?"

The man gave an uncomfortable shrug

"Mr Potter is the oldest surviving victim of the Isaiah strain, he's been stage one for over thirteen years, if anyone understands the pressure of this curse it would be him. Moreover at some point he's going to become stage two and he's going to need people to keep him company. At the moment he's living alone and I worry that it's having a detrimental effect on his mental health. With a disease already threatening his memory he doesn't need more stress on his mind. I believe you could help each other."

She grimaced at the thought, she was sure Harry could help too, but how to talk to him about it? He'd become a recluse, only appearing a couple of times a week from Grimmauld Place. She might have to pay him a visit. Should she go home first? Break down? Cry? Or should she go and visit Harry, postpone the inevitable? And what about work? The goblins were not tolerant of people taking leave.

Eventually it was Victoire who decided it for her, not ten minutes ago she was asking why they didn't see him more. She'd be seeing a lot more of him, it was the least Fleur could do for her daughter, she could survive on what she had for the time being, and could always find another job elsewhere if the goblins took too much offense. Taking another fortifying breath she nodded at the Healer, not so much as to thank him but to acknowledge his help and expertise, then turned to her daughter wondering what to say.

"Are we going home now _maman_? I want to read some more of my books for school."

Hogwarts… How was she going to explain to her daughter that she couldn't go? Another problem to be put off for now.

"Not immediately _ma fifille_ first we're going to go visit your uncle Harry, you were right, we don't see him nearly enough."

The look of excitement on her daughter's face made her heart clench, she hoped her daughter's innocence and wonder would last until the end.

-:-

Approaching Grimmauld Place was always something of a daunting prospect. During the war it had been a fortress, a place of preparation for battle, now it was the home of the most solitary person in magical Britain. With little indicator of when someone transitioned from stage one to stage two, and became contagious, Harry had opted to isolate himself from places where he could be a danger to others.

Personally Fleur hadn't been inside the house for over a decade. She'd had no need; Harry, while a good friend, had never been especially social and that only declined further after the war. When he finally lost Hermione four years ago it was like the end of an era. He'd retreated far back within himself and only attended the rarest of gatherings.

His schedule wasn't exactly a secret though, all of magical britain knew that he spend tuesday and Thursday mornings till lunchtime wandering Diagon Alley and showing his face to the magical public. She understood, he was still a hero to the populace, and if he disappeared entirely there would be a panic of epic proportions.

As she mounted the steps of the ancient building she couldn't help but feel a shiver of apprehension. Would he help? He'd gone through this with a dozen of his friends already, would he tolerate going through it again? For someone who had abandoned him at the end of the war? Hid from the fighting?

Victoire tugging at her sleeve brought her back to the present and she realized she was standing stock still in front of the door with her hand raised to knock.

"What's wrong _maman,_ are we at the wrong house?"

She smiled down at her daughter, summoning strength from some hitherto unknown place within herself

"Nothing _ma fifille."_

She knocked on the door.

The silence after the knock was astounding, it was like the noise from the city was muted out for a brief moment as a heady magical wave flooded over her. Apparently Harry had upgraded his security since last she was here. She was beginning to think he wasn't home when the internal mechanisms of the door began grinding heavily and after a moment the door swung open smoothly.

Inside was far different to what she remembered, the hall was open and airy with much lighter, more welcoming decor. There was a definite feminine touch in the design work, Fleur wasn't surprised, at one point there had been half a dozen young women living here, and men usually didn't have strong opinions on interior design.

The staircase wall which was once adorned with the petrified heads of deceased elfin servants was now covered with hundreds of photos, all labelled carefully though she couldn't see with what. Harry was conspicuous by his absence, usually one had to open a door themselves but it seemed his house could do it for him.

"Harry?"

The word echoed emptily through the cavernous home. She wondered for a moment if the house was simply accepting her on familiarities sake and Harry wasn't even home. Deciding that even if he was out it would be better to wait for him here than retreat to Shell Cottage, where the memories and pain would overwhelm her.

"Come on Victoire, let's find somewhere to wait for him."

" _Oui maman"_

They travelled through the entrance hall and quickly found the kitchen; the old nervous centre of the Order of the Phoenix had undergone a severe transformation since last she'd seen it, the heavy oak table was gone and replaced with a much more elegant teak construction with detailed scrollwork along its rim. The actual room was much larger and felt more like a combination kitchen and entertaining room now with space aside the table near the fireplace for people to stand and talk. The imprints of chairs around that place were still worn into the tiles, evidence of the slowly dwindling population of the house, she supposed Harry had no use for it now, and it probably carried more painful memories than a deeply sensitive person like him could bear.

She helped her daughter up into one of the dining chairs before heading for the kitchen to make tea, anything to occupy her hands. She put some water on the hob to boil and glanced back at Victoire, only to see her staring up at the wall in wonder. Following her daughter's gaze she looked up and gasped at the array of people staring down at them; Hermione Granger, Ronald and Ginevra Weasley were the ones she recognized, but there were over two dozen. They were not photos, as much as she could see, but rather very carefully painted on a broad canvas that Harry had then affixed to the wall, they were moving.

Hermione was smiling down at them with particular joy and Fleur felt the breath catch in her throat; the elegant golden band on her finger could only be one thing. These people, Harry's friends and yearmates, had retreated with him to this massive house at the end of the war to quarantine themselves from the general populace while still enjoying some semblance of camaraderie. Little news had escaped from the building over the years and noone knew that Harry had married Hermione before she died. There was a beautiful and statuesque woman sitting beside Hermione with an arm around her waist. Her high aristocratic cheekbones and delicate bone structure marked her as a pureblood but Fleur honestly couldn't place her name.

She simply stared at them for a moment and was soundly startled when the kettle began whistling loudly, demanding attention from whomever had placed it upon the stove. Tearing her eyes away from the tableau she did her best to focus on making a cup of tea that wasn't horribly insipid.

Fortifying beverage in hand she went to the table and sat next to Victoire who was still gazing at the wall in wonder. In a little breathy voice she asked;

"Who are those people _maman_?"

Fleur really, _really_ , resented that this virus would never let her daughter's precocious nature develop into the headstrong girl she knew Victoire would be one day… would _have_ been, one day. She took a sip of tea, wondering how to respond to her daughter's question, who were these people really? Most of them had died before Victoire was even born, eventually she decided to go with what was familiar to her.

"Those two there?" She said pointing, "Those are your auntie Ginny and uncle Ron. And beside them is your auntie Hermione, she and Harry were very close once."

Victoire glared at Hermione and Fleur had to stifle a laugh, Hermione's portrait openly chuckled at that, though there was no sound. Her little girl's crush was apparently in full bloom.

"What about the rest _maman?"_

Fleur frowned, how best to answer that?

"They were his friends, Harry's friends, his family."

She was considering saying more but a quiet voice sounded from the kitchen doorway

"They still are, gone, but not forgotten."

And there he was, dressed in a pair of heavy cotton slacks and a surprisingly formal jacket done up over a white shirt. His shoes clicked in a strange fashion as he walked across the tiled floor of the room, he stopped in front of the portrait of Hermione and reached up to touch her cheek with a tenderness that made Fleur feel like she was intruding on a private moment.

"What brings you two here? I wasn't expecting company or I would have made lunch."

Fleur flushed, aware of how private Harry was and how withdrawn he'd become after the war, the feeling of intruding on his personal space intensified.

"I needed to speak to you, and ask a favour."

Never before had Harry locked gazes with her like this, it was like he was searching her soul. She had experienced this kind of intense inspection only from Albus Dumbledore before he had died. That was so very long ago now and her meagre resistances to that kind of gaze had abandoned her, she ducked her head, unable to stand the examination.

"Your appointment with Healer Michaels, how did that go?"

His question was almost creepy in its prescience but she answered anyway.

"It's what I came to speak to you about actually, is there somewhere we can talk?"

He nodded once, a sharp motion that belied his lack of common interaction with human beings, it was clearly an unfamiliar gesture. He smiled down at Victoire who blushed furiously.

"Are you going to be okay here for a little while? Do you want something to eat?"

Fleur was a little shocked at how easily he interacted with Victoire, for someone who was so uncomfortable with her he certainly knew how to speak to children. Victoire shook her head shyly and turned to look at the wall again, still blushing profusely. Fleur looked back to Harry only to realize that he was waiting on her, a little flustered she quickly bent down to kiss Victoire on the top of her head and stood, following Harry out into the hallway.

He ascended the staircase to the first landing and she followed him into what used to be the drawing room. It seemed that in the refurbishment he'd had it converted into a sort of study. He pulled up a chair for her and sat comfortably in the Victorian desk chair that he was clearly familiar with, Fleur took her seat but fidgeted in her lap, suddenly nervous; would he accept?

"Victoire's infected isn't she?"

There was a certain elegance to the way Harry spoke, but Fleur barely noticed as she suddenly burst into tears, the full weight of the day's events bearing down on her. She slumped forwards straight into Harry's supportive embrace as he wrapped her in a comforting hug. He didn't say anything, he didn't have to, just having him hold her was enough to give her something concrete to focus on.

She was only half aware of words tumbling from her lips, babbling about how unfair the world was, her husband and child both being taken from her, how she didn't know what to do, how she needed help.

Eventually she calmed, though she wasn't sure how long she sat there just absorbing the comfort he was throwing off in palpable waves of reassuring presence. At last she sat back, gently disentangling herself from his embrace and wiping her eyes. Once her vision was clear she looked down to see him kneeling in front of her, though their eyes were still level, clear concern in his expression.

"Fleur I'll do anything to help, Bill was always so good to me and you two sheltered me when I needed it most during the war, you looked after Hermione after… You were, are, family. Of course I'll do anything I can. What do you need?"

She nearly broke down again at his blank check offer of support but she managed to hold it together.

"Thank you Harry, thank you so much. I just… Don't know what to do, I don't think I can handle going through this with Victoire on my own. She's going to die Harry, my daughter is going to die, and William…"

She choked up and loosed a harsh sob, unable to hold it back.

"William's going to pass on before that, I'm going to be alone!"

It was a selfish thought but that was honestly what scared her most. She'd been in love with William for nearly fifteen years and the thought of being apart from him, of never seeing him again, was enough to terrify her, she didn't know how to live alone, not after having had a loving family about her for so long.

It wasn't even like she could go and live with her parents, they had died during the war, and Gabby was somewhere in Asia, she didn't even know where. She was alone.

"So what exactly do you need from me?"

She shrugged helplessly

"I know what's going to happen to my daughter but I don't know how to handle it, or how to survive it myself. I don't want to go through this alone Harry… I just need someone to be there, to help me through the worst of it and… You've…"

"Yes, I have."

Fleur winced, utterly aware of exactly what Harry had been through, if anyone had the right to claim a lack of fairness it would be him.

"Do you want to move in here for the time being? I certainly have the space."

She frowned, while that would be easier she didn't feel comfortable moving in with an unattached man, she loved William and even the thought of living with another man while he was still alive, while she loved him, was anathema to her. Never mind living with the very attractive, allure immune man who was practically ambrosia to her Veela instincts.

"I don't think I can, but if… If we could visit you, or vice versa, on a regular basis. I'd… appreciate that."

He sent her a warm understanding smile and nodded reassuringly

"Of course, you can come here every day if you need, and Archimedes can find me here if you need me when things… progress."

Archimedes was the owl she had bought William for his birthday earlier that year, after their first owl had been killed by a magical avian predator they had shied away from another but with Victoire heading to Hogwarts they had wanted a way to keep in touch with her. She supposed she'd use Archimedes to keep in touch with Harry now or message him if she needed help or support.

It struck her slightly odd that Harry knew what her owl's name was, especially when it was such a new addition to the household, but he didn't give her much time to ponder.

"For now let's go spend some time with her. The one piece of advice i can give you is to spend every moment you can with her. Soon enough it's going to become a trial to simply be around her, you're going to need as many happy memories as you can get to make it through the harder times to come."

That made a frightening amount of sense, she wondered exactly how many times he'd been through this, how developed were his coping mechanisms? Was it now… routine? She didn't even want to consider the pain he must have endured to reach the equilibrium he was displaying now.

He stood and offered her his hand, it took her aback for a moment that he was wearing gloves, refined white gloves made of what looked like high quality cotton. She'd never seen him wear gloves before, had he returned from something formal? Had he been preparing to head out?

Regaining the moment she took that gloved hand and let him help her to her feet, right, Victoire. Her thoughts were spinning like a scratched record, skipping back inexplicably back to Harry's gloves. It was such a tiny detail but it seems fixed in her mind, an unfamiliar bump on an otherwise well known road.

Harry's picture was everywhere, on the cover of books, posters celebrating over a decade of peace. He was an icon, and in all the pictures he was gloveless. His hands open and welcoming, was it all a front? Was he hiding something?

Her thoughts jarred to a halt as Victoire's shy laughter reached her ears, when had they gotten back to the kitchen? Harry was sitting beside her daughter, laughing and joking. And there was her daughter, smiling up at her crush, laughing and blushing. Fleur felt a pang of regret, a sensation that was rapidly becoming familiar, that this was probably the only time her daughter would feel like she was in love.

She glanced at Harry and his eyes were already there waiting for hers. Reassuring warmth glinting at her from some incorruptible part of his soul. Then they were gone, filled with laughter again as they move back to her daughter.

 _He's giving me time._

The realization was a calming one, he understood the bewildering rollercoaster she was on, numb disbelief fought violently with shattering despair in her breast for control over her heart. She felt like she could barely breath let alone form a coherent plan. Was she going into shock?

Her eyes fled for the safety of the painted wall and met immediately with Hermione's, the portrait was of the girl she once knew as young woman in her late twenties, less elegant and refined than the pureblood at her side but more sincere, more honest somehow.

There was understanding in those eyes, the simulated consciousness of Harry's dead wife _understood_ what she was going though, and was commiserating with her over the unjust nature of life. William… he was going…

"Harry, is your restroom where it was before the renovations?"

He nodded mutely, concern emanating from his intense gaze. She met his eyes briefly, trying her best to convey her need to be alone for a moment before standing and practically fleeing the room.

A single flight of stairs later and she was ensconced in Grimmauld Place's single bathroom, or at least the only one she knew of. A quick flick of her wand erected a silencing ward and she finally just let her emotions go, let her grief flood out in heavy waves that threatened to overwhelm her.

Her husband was going to die, and so was her daughter.

And she was going to be alone.

-:-

"She's adorable when she sleeps."

Fleur looked across the room to the sofa Fleur had conjured where Victoire was sound asleep, wrapped up in a thick blanket. She'd fallen asleep midway through dinner and they'd moved her so she could sleep comfortably next to the fire. A soft smile lit upon her face.

"She is. William always says she finally calms down when she sleeps, takes a break from the day."

Feeling another surge of emotion Fleur ducked her head, resisting the urge to loose another surge of tears. She'd never been particularly composed on a good day and this day was anything but a _good day._ Harry's concerned reply made her wince.

"I don't mean to sound pushy but I really would prefer you stay here, where you have someone to help you if you need it."

"Harry I can't, William…"

She petered off, unsure exactly what she was going to say, but Harry seemed to understand.

"I'd never dream of trying to seduce you Fleur, I respect Bill, I respect _you_ , nevermind how low it would be of me to try and bed a married woman, let alone a grieving one."

He stood and walked to the painted wall, his hand going up to touch Hermione's cheek again. Fleur noted that his tone had become rather strained and tense as he spoke.

"Besides, I couldn't sleep with another woman. Not while I still love my wife."

That gloved hand trembled and Fleur felt a twinge of shame, she'd been so wrapped up in her own pain and worry that she'd not even considered how insulting such an accusation would be.

"Stay, Bill would want you to be somewhere where you have support."

"We could go to the Burrow, Arthur and Molly would take us in."

She noticed with a start that Harry's hand clenched into a fist, had relations between him and the Weasley clan deteriorated that far? The bitterness in his voice was unmistakable, it was the first real emotion she'd heard from him all day that wasn't concern, not faked, or restrained, but genuine bitterness. Apparently things were much worse than she thought, what had happened?

"Yes, they would take you in. Go then."

"Harry."

He turned to the wall fully, shielding himself from view. She glanced up to see Hermione looking down at her husband with a deeply tender expression, the girl beside Hermione however, the pureblood, looked positively ferocious.

"Do you want us to leave?"

Harry turned to her again and she recoiled from the pain in his expression.

"No, I don't want you to leave. I said my home would be open to you if you needed it, I can do nothing less for family. But what I _want_ is irrelevant, what _is_ relevant is that you and Victoire feel safe, and that she's as comfortable as she can be in the time she has remaining to her."

Fleur felt a surge of compassion well up in her chest, he was just concerned for her daughter. Confusion soon followed though, why would Victoire not be comfortable, or Merlin forbid _safe_ at the burrow?

"And we'd be more comfortable here than there? How do you know?"

Harry's frown turned to a full blown scowl.

"Arthur and Molly withdrew their support of Hermione and I after Ron and Ginny died. Last I heard they had retreated into themselves, with Fred and George, Charlie and Percy having left the country and now Bill in hospital there's every chance they'd take Victoire in but kick you out, they aren't welcoming of those not related to them by blood. And there'd be nothing I could do to help, they don't hear me when I speak anymore."

Fleur resisted the urge to gasp, but only just, the idea of the warm loving parents being so callous was honestly something she was finding hard to believe. But at the same time as far as she knew it wasn't in Harry's nature to lie.

But then again, what did she really know of Harry?

"That is… hard to believe."

Like the passing of a cloud his expression cleared, understanding washing over his face.

"They're your husband's family, and I'm little more than a hermit these days, I understand if you don't trust me but… For the sake of Victoire, give me the benefit of the doubt tonight. You can visit them tomorrow, see that what I have to say is true. Surely you notice I barely come to the Weasley family gatherings anymore? The only reason I turned up at all was because of you and Bill."

He trailed off and a strangely comfortable silence sprung up between them; she gestured at the chair next to her and Harry made his way back around the table and sat heavily, as if weary in his bones. He looked strangely out of place next to her, his formal attire and her in a relatively casual dress. His gaze though was just as wistful as hers was curious, his eyes locked on his wife's face.

A question rose to her mind and she tentatively asked it of him;

"Harry, you weren't here when we arrived, where were you? You're dressed rather… Well."

The dry chuckle that came from his lips took her aback slightly, in all the times she'd heard harry laugh it had been an open, honest sound. This was almost derisive.

"I was in Hogwarts, Minerva often has me come in before the beginning of the year to check the DADA curriculum. Robes never truly suited me so I choose to dress like this it's more comfortable."

She very much doubted that anything that stiff and tight could be comfortable, especially more comfortable than something that was essentially a dress, but she let the comment slide, men were strange.

"I have a question for you myself, didn't you have work today?"

She grimaced, the goblins, of course.

"I did, but with the news… I decided my day would be better spent giving my daughter something she really wanted, time with her uncle Harry. And of course I needed to ask for your help."

She glanced at him, the profile of his face was well lit by the still flickering fire and she could easily see the curl of his lips as he smiled.

"She does have quite the crush on me doesn't she? Won't Gringotts suspend you if you miss work without leave?"

She shrugged blithely.

"William and I have plenty of money saved, neither of us really need to work. Between my work at Gringotts as an account manager and his work raiding tombs we're both independently quite wealthy. I have enough money to provide for Victoire, after that…"

She left the statement hanging, unfinished. The implication was clear though, Harry's surprisingly fierce voice replied with force.

"I don't know Bill as well as I'd like but I think he wouldn't want you to give up, to abandon hope. I think he'd want you to live, to be happy. He loves you Fleur, and I cannot see him wishing misery and grief upon you."

He paused, pain mixing into his tone alongside the fierce passion. Abruptly he stood and headed for the door. At the frame he turned and spoke with a strange tone, it almost sounded nervous.

"Follow me, there's something I'd like to show you."

Curious she rose from her chair and followed him through the darkened house. In a rare display of his magic a ball of orange light about the size of an apple rose from his upturned palm. It's gentle glow lit their way up three flights of stairs to the fourth floor landing, pushing open the solitary door he entered, and as Fleur followed she couldn't resist the gasp that left her mouth at the sight.

The walls, the ceiling, every available surface that wasn't flooring, was covered in pictures of faces and sheets of paper, names, dates, spells, even passages from books, were written in an elegant flowing script He turned to her after looking around the room, his eyes showing that same pain she'd seen earlier, shelves were stacked with books and there was an iron bound chest in the corner that Fleur suspected helf even greater treasures.

"Hermione used to call this the codex, Daphne called it the Encyclopedia Pottica as a joke, it's the accumulated knowledge of everyone who lived here after the war. Every day I come through here and go through as much of it as I can, making sure I remember everything. This is how I fight this curse, aside from my magical talent and power it's how I've remained stage one for so long, I train with my magic, and I read, and read, and read. I check the same facts over and over until they're wrote in my mind. I do it so that I can remember Hermione, and Daphne, and Ron. My friends, my wife. I don't get the chance to be happy Fleur, I have a myriad of people in my skull, a decade of their lives meshed with mine, two decades in some cases, I remember them, I fight for them, because no one else will or can."

Fleur was staggered, her mouth articulated, trying to produce sound but the enormity of what this man did was overwhelming her.

"You don't have to live this way Fleur, you can remember your daughter, your husband well after they're gone. You can live a full, happy life. Look after Victoire, mourn your husband, and your daughter. But live, live Fleur, because so many can't, so many have had that right taken from them. Live because you can."

"Okay Harry, I will."

-:-

The next day dawned bright but Fleur felt like pulling the covers back over her head and hiding from the world, despite Harry's… pep talk, the previous night she was still despairing of exactly how to go about the next year of her life… the last year her daughter had left. Her job was practically forfeit, not that it mattered overmuch, but she had other commitments; William, her daughter, and she had to visit with Molly and Arthur, get to the bottom of what was going on there.

There was plenty to do, but first she had to greet the day, and for that, she needed to get out of bed. She glanced at the carriage clock on the mantlepiece and discovered the time was barely past six in the morning. So much for a sleep in. Groaning in annoyance at the unfairness of it all she crawled out of bed and straight into the ensuite.

An hour later she emerged feeling much more refreshed, apparently the women who'd lived here after the war had gotten fed up with only a single restroom and had demanded Harry install bathrooms adjacent to all the bedrooms. Magic was a wonderful thing.

Her next dilemma was what to wear, she'd not expected to be staying the night, she could apparate home and collect some clothes, but… No that really was the only option. Should she tell Harry she was leaving? If he found her gone without word what would he think?

She frowned, if she left without Victoire he'd know instantly that she was going to return, especially if she hadn't greeted either of them over a morning meal. Deciding just to go with it she took her wand from the nightstand, focused on her destination, twisted on the spot, and promptly fell flat on her face.

Huffing in frustration she realized the problem immediately; Harry had anti apparition wards, potent ones too. It was like she'd lost the ability to apparate entirely. Of course Harry had anti apparition wards, he was essentially the most paranoid person on the planet. So… now she was really in a pickle. She could just put on her dress from the previous day… she really hated doing that.

Feeling entirely too grimy for having just showered Fleur made her way down from the second floor to the kitchen where Harry and Victoire were already sitting and talking over tea. Fleur normally wouldn't be certain about her child drinking tea at such a young age but she figured there'd be little harm in it… Was she already so callous? Maybe she was just tired.

"I need to go back to Shell Cottage to collect some things for us, _ma fifille_ we'll be staying here with your uncle Harry for a while, is there anything you want me to get from home?"

Her little girl shrugged inelegantly and went to rejoin her conversation with Harry, only to turn back at the last second and dash across the room to whisper in her mother's ear.

" _Maman_ my journal _sil vous plait_?"

Fleur smiled and nodded before turning and heading for the door.

"I'll be back within a couple of hours, I might stop in and see Molly and Arthur before I return I'll send Archimedes if I do. Will you two be okay here till I'm back?"

Harry waved her off, clearly comfortable to simply spend time with his 'niece'. Victoire seemed perfectly content, if a little rosy cheeked. Fleur privately hoped that a decent amount of time in close proximity to her uncle would cure her daughter of her crush. It would be an awkward year otherwise.

She watched the two talking for a moment longer before heading out the door, a traitorous tear trickling down her cheek. It was so heartbreaking to see Victoire so happy and to also know that it couldn't last.

With a deliberate motion she twisted on the spot, and this time, vanished from the doorstep of number twelve Grimmauld Place. She had things to do.

-:-

The house she'd shared with William for over a decade looked deceptively peaceful, like the panic of the previous day couldn't reach her here. She pushed open the door and wandered into the kitchen. The differences between this house and Grimmauld place were stark; Grimmauld place, despite it's name, had the feeling of a well lived and welcoming hostel, or apartment building. Shell Cottage was a much cozier but less organic home, despite it's location.

She and William had agonized over every inch of the home, decorating it to their exacting preferences. Now the effort seemed foolish, but then it had appeared to be of the utmost importance. As she looked around the spotless home it looked artificial, like a vase of plastic flowers from a cheap muggle store. But at the same time there were so many memories here. Being pregnant with Victoire had been one of the best times of her life, William had taken time off work to be with her for the full nine months (goblins were surprisingly understanding of maternity/paternity leave, who knew?), and they'd spend more time together in that year than many of the years that followed.

Suddenly she felt a wave of grief and nostalgia was over her with such force that she slumped against the countertop, breathing hard against the vast sensation that was washing through her mind. She was going to be _alone_ , she'd thought about it a few times yesterday but only now did the full enormity of what was going to happen crash down on her. This house, which had been the home of her family for fifteen years, suddenly felt like one of William's tombs, filled with memories and pain.

Suddenly she understood why Harry didn't want her to return home the previous night, if she'd been here, alone, asleep? She'd probably have cried herself to sleep. As it was with Harry's support she was able to get to sleep with only a modicum of sobbing. It probably helped that she'd cried herself out earlier in the day, now? Now she was fresh, she needed to get what she needed and get out of here before the feelings overwhelmed her. She _hated_ fleeing her own home but she didn't have much choice, the emotion was just too raw.

She went through Victoire's room, quickly grabbing what clothes her daughter would need for a couple of weeks. She could come back later to get some more things for them, else she could simply purchase them some more, nothing wrong with a shopping trip every now and then.

While it was rather straightforward collecting what she needed from her daughter's room, even finding her journal, her and William's room was significantly harder. She ruthlessly buttoned down her emotions and near tossed clothes into another magically expanded suitcase. Her only concession to her feelings was a heavy cotton t-shirt of Williams that still held his wonderful scent from months and months ago. She'd be needing it before long.

As she prepared to leave the cottage she realized she wasn't yet ready to return to Grimmauld place, wasn't ready to see Victoire and Harry talking and enjoying themselves. Victoire was blissfully unaware and Harry had a most blessed equilibrium about him that seemed to let the man carry on through the harshest of emotional upheavals. She supposed he had plenty of experience with such things, everyone who had ever loved him had either passed away or turned their backs on him. She promised herself to be there for him as much as she could if he needed it, she owed him that much.

Quickly scrawling a note to Harry for Archimedes to carry she shrunk the two suitcases and added them to her owl's burden before sending him on his way. Hopefully he'd make good time and arrive there without trouble. But where to go for her? She could go and see Molly and Arthur, find out exactly what was going on there, or she could visit William again… she missed him so very dearly, but seeing him on the hospital bed in his state might trigger some kind of nervous breakdown, she knew she was nearing her limit already.

Deciding the only real course of action was to go and visit the Burrow she braved another trip into her marital bedroom to change into a clean dress before heading out the door, once more apparating across the country, and leaving memories behind.

-:-

Devon was quiet at this time of morning, and the Burrow itself was eerily silent. If she didn't know better she'd say it was deserted. There was a deep sense of foreboding about the place which was almost more disturbing than the silence itself. The house had always been so welcoming and warm, but now it was forbidding, and cold.

A tentative knock on the door was answered quicker than she expected, especially at this time in the morning. The door opened sharply and Fleur actually recoiled slightly from the sight; Molly Weasley had lost _a lot_ of weight. Robes that used to be well fitting now hung from her frame like a funeral shroud, her face looked drawn and haggard and there was a glint of madness in her eyes. Reinforced by the first words out of her mouth.

"You! You harlot! Don't think I don't know why you're here. Now that my Bill is out of the way you've already shacked up with Potter, yes I know all about that. Where's Victoire? I suppose that's why you're here? To dump my grandchild on me while you wh…"

She never got to finish her sentence as Fleur slapped her soundly across the face, before she had been despondent, depressed. Now she was furious. So furious she couldn't even muster a witty retort, she was simply fuming. Fortunately Arthur tugged a still shocked Molly back into the Burrow before moving outside and shutting the door behind him. Where his wife had lost weight Arthur had gained lines. He seemed to have aged two decades since she last saw him. His voice though, was cracked and aged like ancient vellum.

"I think you'd better leave Fleur, say hello to Harry for me, remind him not to come for Christmas, Molly is still rather furious at him."

She couldn't let that go

"Why? What could she possibly be furious with about him? He's been nothing but an utter gentleman and a perfect friend to our family, that is if you still count me family."

Ignoring her comments about family Arthur answered her first question.

"Molly thinks he's to blame for Ron and Ginny's deaths… and for our family scattering to the four winds. Just… leave, Fleur, please."

He went back inside and Fleur simply stood there, utterly baffled at the change to the most loving and welcoming family she'd ever known. What had this sickness wrought in the world?

How many other broken families were there all across Britain? Europe?

When would this war end?

-:-

AN2: Greetings! I'm that one guy who brought you the Deception series, so hopefully if you read that you'll also enjoy this, or vise versa. I'm having a temporary creative dissonance with the Deception series at the moment, but I've still felt the need to write, so here we are.

Now as you can imagine this is going to slow down progress on the Deception series, or it's going to slow down progress on both as I flit between them, but I needed to get this chapter out of my head. I have a surprisingly detailed plot laid out for this story and it's been floating around in my head for a while, so expect much, much more.

Tune in next time for Chapter Two: Malady; wherein we learn more about the mysterious Isaiah Strain and Fleur comes to terms with the fact that her life is in for multiple rapid drastic changes. As always thanks for reading and other shenanigans. See you next time!

LGreymark


	2. Malady

AN1: *Insert huffy disclaimer here*

Chapter Two: Malady

September 1st 2012

Waking up in Grimmauld Place, though it could hardly be called as such now that it was so light and airy, was a distinctly strange experience. She was comfortable no doubt about it, the bed was warm and cozy, as was the room; but she felt out of place, an intruder.

The previous morning when she'd awoken her mind had been on the day ahead, on escaping this house to buy herself time to think, but in reality she'd simply been battered with even more bewildering upheaval. Fleur was beginning to understand why this house had been such a sanctuary to Harry over the years, it was abruptly separate from the rest of the world, isolated from concerns beyond it's walls to a magical degree.

This morning, as she fully awoke, her mind was focused instead on how to progress forward with her life, or if yet she even should. Victoire had around forty to forty five days, about six weeks, before the curse started destroying her magic and mind. What could Fleur do in that time to make her daughter as happy as possible?

She certainly wouldn't be going to Hogwarts, that was for certain. The discussion she'd had with her daughter the previous night about that had been heartbreaking in and of itself.

-:-

" _Ma fifille_ come and sit with me a moment, we need to talk."

The look Harry sent her from across the room where he was working in the kitchen was full of sympathy and concern, she had to actively force herself to look away from those eyes, the comfort held there was intoxicating in her current state.

Victoire appeared equal parts nervous and apprehensive as she plonked herself down in the squashy armchair opposite Fleur's where the elder woman was sitting near the fire; like she knew what was coming but couldn't bring herself to believe it.

"We're not going to King's Cross tomorrow, you can't go to school _ma fifille_."

The tears started up in her daughter's eyes and Fleur crossed the space in one smooth elegant motion to catch up those dainty hands.

"Don't cry my daughter, look at me." She waited patiently for Victoire to do so before continuing.

"I know you have been looking forward to this for a long time _ma fifille_ but something recently has come u-"

At that point her daughter cut her off with a terrified whisper.

"This is about our trip to St Mungo's _maman_?"

Sometimes her daughter was almost a bit too precocious, and far too smart for her own good. How should she even say this? Should she deflect? Put off the time of truth? No, her daughter would resent her later for that… Though there really wasn't much 'later' to come.

Sucking in a sharp breath Fleur braced herself to speak when her daughter cut her off again.

"Is it Uncle Harry? Is he sick? is that why we're here?"

A pang hit her heart, her daughter really had no idea what was going on. It made sense in a way; they'd run into Harry out of the blue and talked to him for the first time in months, then later that day they'd arrived here in Grimmauld place and stayed the night. To a young girl the chance that her favourite uncle might be sick would be cause for great concern. Fleur swallowed past the lump in her throat and had to blink back tears. She shared a quick look with Harry, just to get his assent. The quick nod of reply was all she needed.

"He is _Ma fifille,_ but that would not stop you going to school. You're sick as well."

Victoire sent her a quizzical look that conveyed all Fleur needed to know about her daughter's opinion on the topic.

"But _maman_ I don't _feel_ sick."

Her heart hitched in her chest and she forced a wan smiled onto her face. She was constantly battling the need to cry at this point, tears being held back only by a supreme force of will and magic.

"You will soon enough Victoire, you can't be around the other kids at the moment, you don't want to make them sick as well do you?"

Her daughter looked at the ground with a contrite expression

"No _maman_ of course not."

She looked up questioningly at Fleur whose heart wrenched with bittersweet joy at the look of inquisitiveness on Victoire's face.

"I don't want to make Uncle Harry worse, or get you sick _maman_."

Fleur caught an amused look on Harry's face out of the corner of her eye as he entered the conversation.

"I'm already as sick as I can get little one. With the exactly the same thing. Your mum can't catch it though, she's safe."

Fleur watched in veiled amazement as Harry knelt in front of her daughter and spread his arms wide, inviting a hug from the young girl. Victoire of course rushed to comply, practically throwing herself into his arms. She hadn't seen Harry hug someone in _years_. Well, that wasn't quite true, he'd hugged her last night. But that had been more of a comforting hug, this was just pure affection for another human being.

She watched her daughter's face, red and happy, snuggle into his shoulder as he stood. Her slight weight didn't seem to slow him in the slightest as he turned to Fleur, smiling sadly. His voice though was filled with cheer, even if she could see the pain in his eyes.

"It's just going to be the three of us for a while Victoire. I'm sorry you're not going to be going to Hogwarts right now."

Vivacious as always her daughter simply shook her head and grinned, eyes still happily closed.

"That's okay Uncle Harry."

-:-

Between the innocent acceptance in her daughter's behaviour and Harry's calm demeanour she was left in a mixed state of wonder and sadness, wonder for Harry's constant ability to take pain and uncertainty away from others while sadness for the unavoidable hurt and pain in all their futures.

So now Fleur was left in an awkward state of limbo; she had roughly a month and a half with her daughter as she was, forty days on the lower end of the scale. And after that months of turmoil and pain.

Furthermore William was still slowly wasting away, she yearned to be with him but she knew exactly what he'd say; that she should be with her daughter, their daughter, before the end, that he didn't want Fleur to see him waste away and die at any rate.

She rolled over in the unfamiliar but luxurious bed and flung her arm out to the side, lamenting the lack of her husband's muscular presence to ease her pain and loneliness. She felt utterly cheated; only a decade and a half with her husband and a decade with her daughter, so little time to live with and love her family. She was not yet thirty four years old and already she was staring down the wand-tip of widowhood.

Couldn't she just stay here in this absurdly comfortable bed? Ignore the world that had been so cruel? Eventually she decided to rise, if only to spend time with her daughter, the little time she had left. Stepping into the shower she reflected on the day ahead, what was to come? She had no idea.

-:-

She still hadn't puzzled out a course of action by the time she had gone downstairs but the feeling of being an intruder in this glorious house had lessened, it was hard to remain aloof of it's charm while it was all around her. In the mornings it looked particularly serene, as if the weight of the day had not yet settled it upon its foundations and it might simply drift away with contentment at any moment.

Her daughter's soft ringing tones and Harry's deeper more elegant speech floated up from the kitchen/dining room where he seemed to gravitate in the mornings. Probably as a result of living here a dozen other people for over a decade; food was a powerful motivator to rise in the mornings.

As Fleur rounded the corner and looked down on Harry and Victoire she couldn't help but smile; he was munching away at a stack of toast while very seriously discussing the morning's Prophet with an equally serious Victoire. Her daughter had a cup of hot chocolate in front of her and a plate of sliced peaches and apples that Harry had clearly prepared.

Even as she watched though Harry's gaze darted above Victoire to the wall behind her where Hermione was watching them benevolently and the pureblood witch at her side was gazing at Harry with a happy glow about her that Fleur had never seen on a woman so young. Not for the first time she wondered exactly who that girl had been to Harry and his deceased wife, she sat very close to Hermione and seemed to do so more out of affection that anything else.

As she stepped into the room the girl's gaze snapped to her with an awareness she rarely saw in magical paintings. Instantly the happy glow slid away and in its place rose up a fiercely protective anger that set Fleur aback a moment, what had she done? What had she done to rouse the ire of this beautiful and elegant young woman?

The feeling of intruding now back full force she deliberately walked around the table to sit next to her daughter, facing away from the wall. Harry's welcoming smile had an apologetic tone, he'd clearly seen the look of loathing but wasn't about to comment on it.

"How'd you sleep Fleur?"

Shaking off the feeling of discomfort sourced in _that_ look she turned a warm, grateful smile on her friend.

"Wonderfully Harry, do you charm that bed? It's amazing."

He chuckled ruefully.

"Not originally no, that was Daphne's room when she was here and she had very exacting expectations for her sleeping arrangements. She charmed it herself when she first arrived then demanded I make it permanent when she realized the house's wards wouldn't let her alter the furniture for any length of time. As the Fidelius wore off the wards slackened and I was able to tear the whole lot down and put them back up, but not before I'd had to basically build that bed from scratch with magic to stop her whining at me."

At that point he glanced over her shoulder and only proceeded to laugh harder, turning to see what had tickled him, and maybe get a glimpse of this Daphne, she stared straight into the eyes of the young woman who had glared at her. 

Only now that furious expression was turned on Harry and Hermione was laughing silently at her equally silent companion. So that was Daphne? Interesting, at least she had a name for the face now, but was the glare she received earlier simply about her sleeping arrangements or was it something deeper? The girl was clearly very possessive of her bed.

She turned from the tableau, hoping Harry could solve another mystery since he was on such a roll.

"What's on the cards for today anyway? I'm utterly lost as to what to do."

Harry turned her an understanding smile and simply said

"I've a fair idea of what we can do."

From any other man she might have taken innuendo from that sentence, especially her husband, but from Harry it just seemed genuine; he did have a fair idea of what they could do, the three of them, and it was probably either fun or practical. Probably a bit of both.

Instead of expanding however he chose instead to stand and move into the kitchen, asking over his shoulder as he went

"What would you like for breakfast Fleur?"

Rare was it now that she craved French food; she'd spent almost as many years living in England as she had in France and she'd become quite accustomed to the 'wonders' of English cuisine. However, looking at Victoire's elegant little plate of fruits made her yearn for home so she replied with an amused smile, certain he wouldn't have to hand what she _really_ wanted for breakfast.

" _Une café glacé et un croissant avec du miel et du beurre bruine, s'il vous plaît" (1)_

Let's see him produce that from this ridiculous house she thought with a touch of humor. What he said next though really shocked her out of her mischief.

" _Certainement madame, une instant." (2)_

She watched with no small amount of bewilderment as he, the consummate tea drinker, had coffee in his house, furthermore he knew the charm to mix an iced coffee. She observed as the cream, liquid coffee and iced water spun into a single ball in the air, mixing thoroughly before draining without a single split drop into the tall glass he conjured wandlessly in his hand. It was a breathtakingly effortless display of magic, wandless conjuring of solid objects was notoriously challenging and few people ever mastered the art. The very few times she'd seen this man use magic in his adult life it appeared to him no more a challenge than breathing, and he used it with such casual grace that it took her aback. Beauxbatons students would _kill_ to have his elegance with magic.

The iced coffee floated safely to the counter next to him as he worked on the honey and butter drizzle for her croissant, a saucepan from one of his cupboards shot out and made an elegant twirl as it settled on an already burning gas hob, just in time to catch a stream of honey pouring from Harry's wand. She'd seen Molly do something similar with cream in the past but she had no idea how they did it, it wasn't transfiguration that was for sure. He gestured carelessly at the fridge and a dob of butter floated leisurely over to the pan where it quickly sizzled into the honey.

Moments later she was presented with a delicious looking plate of food, he'd even sprinkled sugar over the top of the glazed croissant and lightly torched it with a charm to make a crusty top she couldn't wait to crack into. The iced coffee was maybe a little too creamy but she could train that out of him.

He barely even looked smug about it either, as if it were an everyday occurrence to have exotic food demanded of him in French, maybe it had been at one time or other. She didn't want to burst his bubble but simply had to ask.

"Where did the liquid coffee come from? I've never seen you brewing any."

He grinned his lopsided grin and shrugged.

"Hermione adored coffee so I learned pretty quickly to always have a stash of it in a thermos in the hotbox."

She nodded, understanding immediately. It was a pretty common practise at her parents house in France, her father was similarly addicted.

"And the honey? What spell was that?"

He glanced down at the countertop, suddenly bashful.

"Conjuration sorcery."

Her mouth dropped open slightly before she promptly closed it and focused on her meal, no one, _no one,_ could conjure viscous fluids with sorcery and make them _last_.

"So, you mentioned you had an idea for the day's activities Harry."

It was the only thing she could do not to openly gape at him at this point; just move on, advance the conversation. His answering smile was very knowing, but somehow also bashful and excited at the same time.

"Indeed I do."

He leaned close, presumably for a modicum of privacy, and she had to fight her allure as she leaned towards him in reciprocation, this man was entirely too attractive for his own good and it was going to drive her to distraction, she was a married woman, veela, Merlin-damn-it

"With Victoire only having the next month and a bit free before we need to confine her to barracks I figured we could do some travelling, let her see a bit of the world before she has to be cooped up in this dusty old box. In aid of that I was thinking the next few days could be used for shopping and such."

Fleur was utterly gobsmacked, of course they should celebrate Victoire's last month of freedom, why hadn't she thought of something similar? Then another thought struck her; she couldn't possibly afford that.

He seemed to see the disappointment in her eyes because he put a reassuring hand on her forearm and spoke so only they could hear.

"Let me cover this Fleur, I've never travelled either and I'd love the experience, consider your company, and Victoire's company, contribution enough."

She glared balefully at him a moment before allowing her gaze to soften.

"We'll discuss this more later okay? Either way we really should go shopping. We have some clothes but I imagine we'll need more just by merit of differing climes."

Harry's look had a quality she'd never had directed at her before, it was admiration.

"You know you've really taken to the English language Fleur, I can remember when I could barely understand what you were saying, now you speak at least as well as I do. Good for you."

The praise felt good coming from him, but she wasn't sure why. It wasn't the 'good' she normally associated with receiving praise, that warm glowy feeling of accomplishment and pride...No this was deeper, richer, and somewhat unsettling. The swell of pride within her breast was so strong that it threatened to wrench her heart right through her ribs with the force of it.

"Thank you Harry. A decade living with my English husband probably helped."

His lopsided grin returned and that same wry chuckle rolled forth once more, it seemed a reliable standby for him, like a rote response.

"No doubt. How's your croissant?"

Looking down at her plate she belatedly realized that she'd already finished it and tilted said plate towards him as proof.

"Delicious, absolutely delicious. Thank you, it's been a long time since I've had one of those."

He looked pleased, it was less the bashful embarrassed look he'd gotten earlier and more an acknowledgement of something he already knew. Fleur had no doubts he'd had the compliment many times and had become desensitized to its effects with the repetition.

She figured she'd have to get some new material if she wanted to make him blush with bashfulness again. She wasn't sure she wanted to though, or rather, she wasn't sure _why_ she wanted to. It was a conundrum to puzzle out in private, like all the others surrounding him.

At that point Victoire demanded Harry's attention with another news story and she sat back in her chair to sip at her drink and smile indulgently at them. She'd never really been able to pull that smile off before coming a mother but it seemed to be one of the perks. Now she could bring out a glowing indulgent grin whenever she needed one, it was surprisingly useful.

Now for instance it was a mask, she was using it to disguise her inner thoughts from the preternaturally perceptive Potter Lord sitting across from her.

She seemed to be on the precipice of a desperately slippery slope; If she went with her daughter and Harry, went around the world and explored… She knew she'd have fun. She'd enjoy herself. A part of her was honestly longing for the prospect, the idea that she could have some happiness, no matter how small, back in her life was appealing.

But her husband was in hospital, dying, her daughter can contracted a virulent, incurable, magical curse, and she would be out in the wide world with her daughter and an unmarried man whose magic frankly _sang_ to her Veela nature.

Well, Harry wasn't _really_ unmarried, it would be more appropriate to call him a widower, and he was obviously still very much in love with his late wife. But something about it still felt foul to her, something about having fun while her husband was in pain and torment made her heart clench in worry and she travel with Harry and her daughter? Could she leave England to spend time with her little girl while Victoire still have the chance to enjoy such an experience?

As she was pondering this conundrum her daughter had managed to coerce out of Harry a conjured sheaf of parchment and some charcoal for sketching. Early on in life Victoire had taken a shine to doodling, and eventually drawing. She wasn't an untalented artist, but neither was she a budding prodigy. Rather the value of her work was sentimental, mostly to Fleur who had a thick scrapbook filled with magically preserved copies of her daughter's 'works'.

At the moment Victoire was sketching Harry, it wasn't particularly detailed but it was clear to see who she was drawing, the lines of his face were distinct and his messy hair was unmistakable. In a few years if Victoire had been given the chance to continue the hobby she might have developed into a formidable artist. But she wasn't going to get that opportunity.

The realization that there was so little of her daughter's life left that Fleur made her mind up in that instant. Victoire wasn't going to get the chance to grow up, fall in love and be a renowned artist, but Fleur _could_ give her a month of happiness and fun in a trip around the world. William would understand, he'd want this for their daughter, he'd want this for _her_. Fleur had never gotten the chance to travel any further than Britain, she'd fallen very hard for her redheaded curse breaker and with the war and William's family being so heavily involved they'd both decided to stay on the isles.

He'd want her to travel, to experience, to live. He'd want that for their daughter too.

Glancing to Harry she realized with a pang that he probably wouldn't have any inclination to leave the country without some 'project' to keep his mind off his loneliness, perhaps Victoire's last month of happiness was a good excuse for him to travel as well. He, more than anyone else, deserved some fun and happiness, some pleasure in life.

It wouldn't be the focus of their travel, but she'd make sure he enjoyed himself too, she owed him that, they all did.

Harry's eyes met hers as she watched him absently and a concerned look stole over his features like a cloud over the sun. His lopsided grin was erased by a frown and his brows constricted to a arched 'V'. That damnable preternatural hypersensitivity of his. Even his voice was laced with genuine solicitation.

"Fleur are you alright?"

Smiling reassuringly she assuaged his concerns.

"Sorry, I got lost in thought there a second."

Lost in thought indeed.

-:-

A pox on muggle shopping centers. A thousand poxes on them all.

Never before had Fleur encountered so many _people_ , the only thing that even came close was the Quidditch world cup, and this was just a _store_. Well, more accurately it was a giant building filled with lots of smaller stores, but still a _store_.

She felt like a child as she followed Harry's unerring journey through the throngs of back to school shoppers. Victoire on the other hand, was having a ball. Young veela can feel the surface level emotions of those around them, mostly as a safety mechanism. Being in the middle of a crowd of happy-go-lucky shoppers was bliss for her as she basked in their collective joy.

They weren't idly wandering through this colossal rat's burrow. No, they had purpose. Clothes, for the most part, were at the top of the list. Their brief discussion over locations before leaving Grimmauld place had indicated they would need clothes from hot weather to cold. The advantage of being magical of course, was that they didn't have to travel light. They could buy everything they needed and carry it around in an internally expanded muggle backpack. Appearing for all the world like a family going backpacking around the world.

And there was the rub, the thing that still poked at the back of her mind, they would look like a _family_ she still couldn't shake the thought that she should be staying with William, sitting by his side and taking every moment she could with him before he passed on. She desperately needed to see him, to at least tell him what was happening, let him know that their daughter needed to be happy, to live.

Harry's voice penetrated her thoughts with an abrupt quality that left her reeling for a moment, unsure of what he said.

"I'm sorry Harry, what did you say?"

That same default chuckle again.

"I don't think you want or need me going through this with you."

She looked up to belatedly see that they were standing in front of, yet another, clothing store. He'd already started moving towards the men's section of the, what looked like, fairly upmarket summer clothes outlet.

Victoire followed happily along behind her as she meandered through the racks of, surprisingly modest, summer wear. Fleur was not familiar with the muggle world and did not interact with muggles often. Therefore she had been dismayed at first to see that while the magical world had retained largely the same clothing trends over the last two decades, the muggle world had moved dramatically towards… sluttiness.

She raised an eyebrow at _yet another_ miniskirt and moved on with a huff of disgust. She wasn't overly fond of robes, especially the British black. But there was something to be said for not exposing one's _entire_ lower half to a stiff breeze.

Her mother still occasionally sent her packages of muggle clothes, but they were dated. Corduroy trousers, linen shirts. If Fleur didn't know better she'd say those clothes had come from her father's cast offs. But this? This was entirely different.

Huffing with exasperation at the task ahead she buckled down, shoving the maudlin thoughts of her mind for the time being.

-:-

Four hours later Victoire was about dead on her feet and Fleur wasn't far behind her. They'd made a serious dent in their list; Victoire's entire wardrobe was filled out, from warm weather shorts and t-shirts to cold weather jackets and trousers. Thermals, underwear, jeans, etc. All of it in Victoire's miniature scale. The muggles truly did prepare for everything with their production.

Fleur's wardrobe was a little sparser. It'd been honestly very hard to try and find lightweight summer clothes that didn't look as if she was trying to get someone else's clothes _off_. That might be the divide between magical and muggle sensibilities speaking, it might be Veela skittishness, or it might be her persisting worry about spending time alone with Harry.

Regardless it had taken far too long to accumulate a summer wardrobe, and she'd rushed getting Victoire's wardrobe completed because, ostensibly, she could get clothes anywhere, but finding clothes in Victoire's size the world over could be a problem. Harry had vanished, part of her was a little concerned to be alone in such an enormous store filled with muggles in a world she wasn't adept at maneuvering in. The separation had forced her to adapt though, and she'd quickly acclimatized to dealing with muggle store assistants.

There was something niggling at the back of her mind, almost like Harry was forcing her to adapt, to learn how to live unsupported. Or maybe she was just being paranoid and he'd genuinely just wanted to give her space to shop while he got his own shopping out of the way.

Speaking of which, where the hell was he? She and Victoire were sitting at a small cafe where she and Harry had agreed to meet when they passed in the main concourse of that enormous construction, but he was nowhere to be seen.

That on it's own was honestly very strange. If there was one thing about the Harry Potter public (and even private image) it was punctuality. He was where he was expected to be, but here she was, waiting for him.

As if he had heard her and apparated into place with his usual silent appearance she turned to see Harry slipping into his seat at the table. He shot her an apologetic smile before turning a megawatt grin to her daughter, obviously apologising in his own elegant way for being late.

Victoire smiled sleepily back at him, it had been a long day for her little girl already and she figured Victoire would sleep well tonight. Abruptly Fleur realized that, if things had been different, her daughter would be on the Hogwarts express right now, making friends, and journeying towards a new life. She felt a lance of grief strike at her heart and she had to choke back a sob. Harry's sharp gaze snapped to hers and he checked a pocketwatch that seemed to materialise from the air, so fast did he collect it from his jacket.

Another sharp, but somehow concerned, glance in her direction. That glance seemed to pierce right to her core, scanning exactly what her emotional state was and if she could handle being in public. She gave him a shaky nod and that sharp gaze vanished as he turned back to her daughter. It struck her that something vital had changed about Harry in the years since the war, where once he had been an earnest and passionate young man, but basically open and easy to read, with moods that tended towards melancholy and passion. He had become a capricious person, able to change his mood on a whim as it suited him to deal with those nearby. He could shift from concerned to happy in an instant.

Was it a front? Was he still, in his core, that passionate and earnest man? Was he hiding an ocean of grief behind a mask? Or was he forever changed to this elegant but unreadable enigma who could shift between moods in a blink?

She suppressed a shudder to think of what his rage might be like, these moods he seemed to flit between were intense, extremes. Deep concern, unbound happiness, fervorous passion, crippling grief… Would it also be implacable, explosive rage?

She didn't want to find out.

She had to believe he was the same though, she had to believe that all of this hadn't changed the fundamental person that he was. Mostly because she suspected that in the year ahead her own spirit was going to be tested, and she wanted… needed, to believe that she would be able to get through it. For her family, she needed to survive, and live.

She had already noticed changes about herself; she was more prone to losing the track of conversations, her thoughts were rapidly becoming more and more jumpy and erratic. Even paranoia was beginning to show. She new those changes were born of the shock of her rapidly changing life, what she didn't know was whether they would become permanent. She hoped not.

"Ready to go?"

As was his want Harry managed to cut straight through her inner monologue and wrench her back to the present. She raised a thin eyebrow before returning a question.

"Did you get everything you needed?"

He shrugged in return, that familiar lopsided smile on his face.

"I already had most of it truth be told. If anything I've had time to accumulate clothes over the years. The few gaps I had. I filled."

His eyes glanced towards his breast pocket and she surmised that was where his shrunken shopping was hidden.

"What about you? Got everything?"

She shook her head slightly, and shrugged.

"I focused on getting Victoire what she needed, I can pick up clothes wherever we go, child friendly clothes might be rarer to pick up on the fly."

His understanding nod told her all she needed to know; that he had already figured that out, that he would have done the same.

"We should go, crowds make me nervous."

He paused and she wondered at that, why did crowds make him nervous, even muggle crowds? Was it simple paranoia? Or something deeper?

"Even now." 

He stood then, offering her his hand, and she took it, resolving to ignore his little moment out of respect. They both turned to their third companion and shared a smile. She was nodding off in her seat. Fleur stepped forward and swept her little girl up into her arms, whispering to her.

"Time to go home _ma fifille_. Time for you to get some sleep."

Victoire shifted sleepily in her arms but mostly just snuggled. For all the fact that she was eleven and full of energy most of the time, being out in public with so many people around her would have been extraordinarily tiring for the young Veela.

Veela children are mildly empathic, mostly as a self defense mechanism. It's easy for them to tell the intentions of those around them, so they can tell if someone is a threat. The flip side of that is that in large crowds they can be quickly overwhelmed by the emotions flying about. Being in the giant shopping mall surrounded by people for four hours had exhausted her little girl.

She turned to Harry, her smiling mouth already forming the words for departure

"Let's go, I've got a couple more things I need to get done today… Before we go."

She had decided just then, on the spot, that she needed to see William again, see him today. Before anything else happened. She needed to talk to him about what was going on, tell him the plans she and Harry had made to give her daughter a taste of the life that she would never get to have.

The ever prescient Harry smiled, though the look didn't reach his eyes. All that was there was concern and understanding. He didn't linger, or pester her for details, he simply turned and led the way to the exit.

-:-

St Mungo's was busy as ever. As she bustled down the corridors she resisted a burgeoning sense of dread. Would her husband be able to see that this wasn't about her and Harry? That she wasn't abandoning him for a younger man? That she was doing this for their daughter?

She scoffed at herself, of course he would, she had married William, loved William, because he and she were so in tune in life that there was hardly a divergence in their miens. Though they had different fields of expertise and came from vastly different backgrounds; they both had a similar lean on life that meshed so well with the other. Rarely could she even remembering having a serious argument with her husband, and most of those were related to the war.

Renewed with a sense of determination (and resolve) she focused her pace and, in no time at all, was stepping into the protective mist that formed an ethereal barrier to the ward. As usual the trip down the end of the row of beds seemed endless. When at last her gaze rested upon her husband her breath was wrenched from her body. Where not two days previous he had been an emaciated but otherwise healthy looking man, now his skin was like parchment, dry and yellow, and his muscles had withered away completely.

He was near skeletal and she felt bile rise in her throat at the sight of her previously vital husband so broken and ruined. Tears pricked at her eyes but she blinked them away angrily, unwilling to succumb, as she sat in the chair at his side. Before she could even speak a healer had arrived and was talking at a pace she couldn't keep up with.

That was one thing Harry did that she was infinitely thankful for, he spoke with an, impassioned surely, but measured tone that allowed her to keep pace through her grief. Even after over a decade on the British Isles she still reverted to her native tongue in times of stress and had to make the mental shift back to English for every word.

But this healer was going to infuriate her if he continued in this gallop of a pace.

" _Monsieur s'il vous plait, arreter"_

He did stop at least, but the blank look he gave her was less than helpful. In another time it would have drawn a laugh from her that the language rather than the words had caused the required effect. Reprimanding herself privately she made the mental shift to English through her exasperation.

"Can you say that all again, but… slower? Please?"

He gave a bashful nod and continued at a much more manageable pace. Perhaps he suffered from such a problem frequently as his diction now was ideal.

"The strain your husband is suffering from reacted unexpectedly to the diagnostics we've been using to measure its progress. To our dismay it absorbed the ambient magic of the spells and temporarily, and dramatically, accelerated its progress. Obviously we stopped using the spells as soon as we realized the trouble but…"

He didn't finish but, really, he didn't need to. The damage was done; her husband who she had expected to live for months yet, was now doomed to a much shorter lifespan. It was an unexpected complication, and one that they couldn't have planned for, but she couldn't help but hold the healers accountable. Maintaining her composure, just, she asked in a necessarily sharp tone.

"How much time do I have left with my husband?"

He looked extraordinarily guilty and she wondered if it was _his_ diagnostic spells that had accelerated William's sickness.

"Hours madam."

"Take your leave sir."

The coldness in her voice was unintentional but she didn't harness it, allowing it to flow in waves through her words. Abruptly the man walked away with the air of one fleeing death. Fleur hardly noticed as she turned to her bedridden husband and took his hand carefully, mindful of his fragile state. She went to speak to him at last but was again interrupted, this time not but a guilty healer, but by her own emotions.

Without warning or restraint the full force of her grief washed over her in a startling wave that once more took her breath and left her gasping for air. Tears followed soon after and this time they would not be banished by angry blinks. Bitter and hot they flowed down her cheeks unchecked. Even as she closed her lids against the tide she sobbed through her gasps, unable to summon even a single coherent word.

What fresh hell had she tumbled into?

-:-

It was late when at last she returned Grimmauld place. She barely even registered the wave of magic, now familiar, that washed over her when she knocked on the door. It opened on it's own as was it's want and she stumbled up to her room, all grace forgotten. Or at least she tried to, the stairs were uncooperative and she ended up on her knees, insensate and babbling in her grief.

He was gone.

Her husband, the man she had made her life with, the father of her daughter, was gone. He'd lasted a scant three hours as the Virulent Egyptian disease ravaged his body and rapidly dried him to a mummified husk. Normally composed and elegant due to equal parts heritage and training, Fleur was presently a mess, unable to even see straight as she slumped against the wall, defeated.

Minutes passed like hours as she sat in a haze, drifting in and out of conscious thought. Like with Harry's gloves her brain couldn't get passed the simple fact that William was gone. Dead. It skipped back to it whenever she tried to focus, to get to her room. Victoire couldn't see her like this.

Victoire, that thought gave her enough of a jolt to climb to her feet and ascend a few more of the steps to the landing where her room was located. But again she stumbled and barely caught herself, turning and leaning against the wall, unable or unwilling to push on. Her whole life was gone, ruined, empty. What was the point of even continuing? Her husband, her beloved, was gone, her daughter would soon be gone. What was there to live for?

The empty march of years ahead of her opened up like a yawning abyss, she was magical, she was Veela, she could expect to live for a hundred years beyond this if she lived healthily. More even. The majority of Veela in the conclaves lived to be truly ancient. How could she survive that time alone? Why should she even try?

Abruptly she was wrenched out of her train of thought as strong hands wrapped around her forearms and tugged her up, before sweeping around her and lifting her into very warm comforting arms. Her brain tricked her for a moment, making her think that these arms were Williams, that he had returned somehow to comfort her. But the illusion was shattered as Harry's voice, smooth with repressed empathy, reached her ears.

"Let's get you to bed, we can talk about it tomorrow."

She wanted to protest, that she couldn't be alone right now, that it was _dangerous_ for him to leave her with her thoughts. But the words wouldn't come, only further sobs wrenched from the depths of her chest. She barely registered the trip upstairs, the next thing she knew he was lowering her onto the too-comfortable bed that was, apparently, now hers.

His hand waved and suddenly she was dressed in an unflattering silk nightgown. Perhaps his own sense of propriety was acting up. He turned to leave.

"Don't… please?"

He stopped at the door and turned back to her

"Of course, I'll be here as long as you need."

He helped tuck her under the sheets before laying down on the bed, atop them, and cradled her head against his chest. Fleur nuzzled into him and listened to the sound of his heart thudding away. It lulled her and before she knew what was happening light was streaming through the windows against the back of her eyelids. She'd fallen asleep and it was clearly morning.

There was sensation of waking or feeling of disorientation. She had simply lost time, the hurt was still so raw, so real. She pushed it aside, with sleep had also gone the crippling nature of the pain. Now it was simply agonizing, not blinding. Her heart was throbbing with the agony of it, but she was no longer incoherent. She could think clearly again.

As she shifted to move she realized that Harry was still asleep on the bed, his arms wrapped around her midriff. She took a minute to observe him, pushing down the pain by focusing on his features.

He'd grown up since she last saw him in Shell Cottage all those years ago. The hard lines and hollow cheeks of someone malnourished and on the run had softened and filled out to a handsome square face tinged with stubble and old war wounds. A white, mottled scar ran along the left side of his jawline, a souvenir from the war. Another bisected his right eyebrow, and one more near his right ear; short and curved.

Of course the 'important' scar, the one he'd born since birth, was faded to be almost the same color as his skin. He was pale, frightfully so, as if he had no life in him at all, but he was hot to the touch, like someone with a fever. Powerful magicals often felt hot to the touch, the magic boiling under their skin warmed their blood. Bill had been the same, but to a lesser degree. She'd touched Harry's magic once, when she was healing him, long ago. It had felt like touching a sun, searing, overwhelming, vast, indifferent, and _bright_.

He seemed diminished in some way, like the sun shuttered behind a cloud. It was strange, to see him like this, was that the curse? Weakening him slowly over the course of many years? She'd probably never know, at the moment though, she needed to get up, see her daughter, move.

Because if she didn't keep moving she'd be destroyed by the raging leviathan in her heart. It would consume her from the inside out. William… No, she couldn't think about him, she couldn't collapse again, Victoire needed her, needed her to be strong. Enough tears.

She went to move, to get up, but again found Harry's unexpectedly strong embrace holding her down. Even in his sleep he was an immovable object. She refused to grunt with the effort of trying to move him, she was Veela and such an attractive sound would never leave her lips. Instead she whispered quietly to him, trying to hold her nerve.

"Harry… Harry please wake up."

Unburdened with such limitations as beauty, _he_ grunted in his sleep and rolled over, tugging her down to the bed with him. Resisting the urge to huff in frustration she opened her mouth to wake him with a firmer tone but he interrupted her, muttering under his breath.

"Hermione shhhh… It's too early to be awake. Go back to sleep, we can have a sleep…"

Pain flared through her heart again and she sobbed without warning. There was entirely too much loss in this household. Harry's breathing accelerated rapidly and his grip tightened before relaxing completely. Before she could speak he was up in one smooth motion to sit on the bed. His soft firm tones met her ears a moment later.

"Sorry that was… Sorry."

Half of her wanted to reassure him the other wanted to go see her daughter, the familial side won.

"I'll be back."

She was still in her clothes from before, but as much as her body was screaming at her to change, to remove the stench of death that she was sure she could smell, the urge to see her daughter, to make sure she was safe, overrode that need with a passion.

The warmth of the house, it's candor and charm, rolled off her like so much water in the face of her anxiety, in the face of her growing fear. _Victoire…_

She burst into her daughter's room to find her sitting at her vanity brushing her hair. She turned, innocent to the woes of the world with a questioning look on his face.

" _Maman?_ _Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?"_

She swept across the room, ignoring the clothes scattered on the floor, her daughter was safe, happy. A quick moment later and Victoire was in her arms, confused, but alive, gloriously alive.

" _Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?"_

Her daughters inquiry was tinged with panic now. Fleur never acted in such a way typically. The words to reassure her daughter, to let her know that everything as fine, died in her throat. _Nothing_ was fine.

Nothing would ever be fine ever again.

" _Maman!?"_

-:-

The morning light that streamed through the narrow window seemed cold and bleak from where she sat at the kitchen table, like the life was gone from the whole world, and not just her husband. Victoire was curled up in front of the fire and Harry was hovering between them, unsure who to comfort. His eyes locked with her and she nodded, her daughter needed him more.

Victoire… her darling girl, wouldn't touch her, wouldn't look at her. Grief presented differently for everyone and for her daughter it seemed to make her want to isolate herself.

Harry sat down beside Victoire and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a firm hug. Her daughter resisted at first, beating her tiny fists against his chest. But she broke down eventually and let him hold her against his shoulder where she proceeded to sob;

"Daddy!"

The cries of distress set Fleur's heart on edge. She yearned to go to her, to hold her close and tell her that her father would come back to her, but she couldn't. Harry's gaze met hers over her daughter's shoulder and she saw the understanding there, the knowing gaze of someone who had distanced himself from a situation before. He bent to whisper in Victoire's ear and abruptly her little girl disentangled herself from Harry and dashed across the room to her. Feeling numb she opened her arms and was abruptly holding her sobbing daughter against her chest.

" _Je suis désolé Maman"_

She shushed her daughter, holding her close and doing her best not to break down along with her.

No more tears

"Why are you sorry _ma fifille_?"

The response was nearly a wail.

"I didn't mean it I didn't I swear _maman_ I didn't mean to hurt you, I love you so much."

Her heart broke, she could almost feel the muscle ripping itself in two.

" _Ma fifille_ it's okay, I love you too. We'll get through this."

She looked up to try and find Harry but he was nowhere to be seen.

"Okay _Maman_."

Harry had been cold since that morning when she had woken up in his arms. He was present, available for them, to be a shoulder to cry on, to make tea, coffee. He had been present, but at the same time absent, distant. His eyes didn't hold their usual warmth, their usual sharpness of character. It was like he had shut himself off from them. She didn't know what to think about it. Was it a symptom of the curse? Had he finally forgotten something core to his being? Or was the cause more mundane; discomfort, uncertainty, pain? She didn't know.

" _Maman?_ "

The gentle voice of her daughter made her close her eyes, she was so innocent, even now.

" _Oui ma fifille?_ "

"What do we do?"

She held Victoire at arms length and brushed the hair back from her ears. Brushed the tears from her cheeks and smiled.

"We live _ma fifille_ we live and honor your father by living life as fully as we can."

"I don't know if I can _Maman_."

Fleur sighed softly and kissed her daughter's forehead before folding her back into her embrace.

"We must _ma fifille_ we must."

"Okay _Maman_."

-:-

"Fleur."

The soft spoken word felt like a slap from it's indifference. The distance he had created was beginning to sting. Their plans had been temporarily put on hold while the two female members of the house grieved, the day had felt like an age. Now that night had fallen Victoire was sleeping and Fleur could find their absentee host. She'd gone upstairs and checked the codex, but he'd not been there either. Eventually she found him on the top floor in a small office space, slaving away over some document or other.

"We missed you at dinner."

He smiled thinly at her and she frowned. Harry was anything but distant, he was close, warm, loving even.

"I had some work to deal with, I've let it sit for too long, and with our plans I need to organise in advance as much as I can. There are employees who need pay, deals that need a signature."

The reply genuinely surprised her, she had no idea he had business holdings, or any kind of work really. He looked up at her, finally, and she had to fight the urge to take a step back, his eyes looked cold, dead. Like the life had fled them.

"Harry?"

His name slipped from her lips before she could hold it back. It was a plaintive request, a hopeful one, that the man she knew was still in there somewhere, that she could still trust him.

"What is it Fleur? Can I help you?"

The reply was flat, without inflection. She began to wonder if he was keeping an emotion in check, if he was trying to stave off his own feelings about the situation. Suddenly her worry seemed petty; this man who'd survived so much… she'd brought death into his house again. Of course he would be distant, he was probably remembering, far too much. She turned to leave

"It's nothing. I'm sorry to bother you, I'll go."

"Fleur."

His voice now held a tinge of power to it, it wasn't a request that she stay, it was a command. Slowly she turned to see him standing not half a meter from her. It was disconcerting to have his overwhelming presence so close, the shutters on his power, his magic, were gone. He was all around her, powerful, all encompassing. She wondered if this is what it would have felt like to be in the presence of Merlin. She couldn't help herself, the words tipped out of her elegant bow shaped lips before she could contain them.

"You've been so distant today, I… we needed you."

The caught the barest glimpse of pain in his expression before he closed his eyes and his face assumed a neutral attitude, but he couldn't hide the response from his magic. It arced out light electricity and obliterated a chair before repairing it seamlessly in one motion. She felt her eyes go wide at the display of uncontrolled emotion. While he was typically demonstrative with his affection, even in a muted sense. He rarely displayed anger or any kind of passion.

"I'm sorry… this morning…"

She glanced at him, suddenly unsure, was he feeling guilty? Not for the first time she wished she could read him better.

"Harry, you don't need to apologise, you were asleep."

He looked confused then, as if he'd lost the thread of the conversation, and that made her even more confused. Abruptly his expression cleared and he let out a light chuckle.

"Of course, I didn't mean to drape myself around you like that. But that wasn't what I was referring to. Since…"

He trailed off and walked to the window. He took a breath and his magic abruptly vanished, hidden behind the shutters he put it behind. Only then did she realize that she had become lightheaded, her knees were weak and her panties were decidedly wet. It was utterly _unfair_ what his magic did to the Veela inside her.

"Since that day I've not dreamt, since the day I killed him, Tom, I haven't had a single dream, I lie down, close my eyes, and open them with no gap of consciousness, but fully rested. No dreams, no sensation of falling asleep. But last night… I dreamt."

She didn't speak, she was too transfixed by his monologue. It was a scarce insight into what he was going through. Was it the case that her daughter didn't dream also? Was it a similar sensation to what she went through last night? She had no idea.

"I haven't heard her voice in years Fleur. My wife's… I see her day in day out in that painting. She smiles at me, watches me with her beautiful eyes, but she never speaks. But last night… last night she spoke to me again Fleur, I thought… when I woke I thought you were her, that I'd been in a nightmare, that she had returned to me. When… I felt your allure, hidden though it was, it was obvious you weren't her. It brought everything back so fast and I couldn't stand the thought of having to go through that again."

She frowned, that didn't understand what he was saying. Unfortunately his sharing mood seemed to be spent. But at least his warmth had returned, the life was back in his eyes.

"I'm sorry for being so absent today. Come on, let's grab a drink and get some sleep, we still have planning to do."

Fleur smiled softly as he swept elegantly from the room. He had returned, but at what price?

-:-

AN2: Here we go, sorry for the wait but I've really only just gotten back into a writing mood. On top of that I really struggled to keep this chapter to the standard of the other one. Making sure everything was smooth was a challenge but I think I might have, just barely, nailed it. This one felt even more emotionally charged than the last. It's gonna be a few more chapters before we're truly out of the woods on that front.

AN3: Review Responses

Diggerboy4: Thanks for the review!

The Shadowman: Thank you! It's certainly a new field for me.

xLUNARxANARCHYx: Thank you! I do hope that this is equally good.

The Amazing Grayson: Gah, don't make me blush. Regardless, thanks for the review.

CCBottle: I'm gonna clue you into a little secret. I attempted to write the starting chapter six times with Fleur not having a daughter but it was basically impossible to get them in the same place at the same time without it seeming really contrived. This situation both allows for a much easier meeting and a far smoother plot. She is adorable.

Septimus714: Thank you! Truly. Glad to hear you're enjoying my work

Guest: Well here you go. :/

Tune in next time for Chapter Three: Travel, wherein Fleur, Victoire and Harry begin their world tour and do their best to have fun despite the shadow hanging over them. As always thanks for reading and other shenanigans. See you next time!

LGreymark

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